


Maybe the Rain

by lonelywalker



Category: Dexter (TV)
Genre: AU, Age Difference, F/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-23
Updated: 2011-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 01:00:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During 4x04, the Miami rain stops Deb and Lundy from going to the parking lot. Bed seems like a much better option.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe the Rain

The ocean breeze gusting in from the slim hotel room balcony brings raindrops with it as Deb finds her pants on the floor. By the time she pulls them up over her hips, fastening the fly, the breeze is a gale, the rain battering against the glass.

“Fuck. And you were bitching about the _heat_.”

Her car is in the parking lot outside, but she knows rainstorms in Miami. She’ll be soaked to the skin three feet from the doorway. So much for a sense of responsibility. In her pocket she thumbs her phone, still switched off. No one in the world knows where she is and, tempting as it would be to prolong the inevitable, she had decided to crawl out of bed at 5am and go to face the music. To face Anton.

Frank, predictably, is absolutely no help at all. A couple of years older than he’d been when he was far, far too old for her, with a little less hair and a little more puppy fat around the edges, he’s still the most irresistible man in her world when he smiles. He’s been doing that a lot tonight, ever since she told him to shut up and proceeded to kiss all those longing gazes and cautious words right out of him.

What happened between them – or _didn’t_ happen – two years ago should be too mangled and messed up to fix in one night. She had come here desperate to find the eye of the storm, a moment of peace in the whirlwind of emotions he’d stirred up in her. It had only taken the touch of his lips on hers. No Chopin this time, no cucumber sandwiches or Zen-like wisdom, just clothes crumpled to the floor, her fingers in his hair, his hips between hers, and a blissful silence in which nothing needed to be said.

She pulls the French windows closed, steps back, and sits down heavily on the edge of the bed. “I’m a fuckwad.”

Frank’s toes are prodding her spine. God. He’s just impossible, _makes_ it impossible. “You’re not a fuckwad,” he says in that too-understanding-for-words voice of his, sitting up with the sheets tangled around his waist, his fingertips light on her shoulder.

Thunder claps outside – less a clap than a motherfucking _neutron bomb explosion_ – and it really is impossible then, as she throws herself into him, rain-streaked pants and all. “I’m trying to be the responsible one,” she mutters, voice muffled against skin and pillows as she forces those sheets away, probably elbowing him in the kidneys in the process.

“It doesn’t suit you.”

So there he is, special agent rock star, deft fingers unfastening her pants and sliding them down her thighs for the second time tonight. He should be too old for this. _She_ should be too old for this.

 _Are you always going to be this touchy about the age thing?_

His hands stroke over her ass, warm and dry, pulling her in tight against him as he kisses her. He should taste of Scotch and sushi, but she can’t help closing her eyes to the half-lit room and remembering the taste of him on their many first times: one afternoon by the water, one evening in his kitchen, one night in his bed.

She’s going to ask, to blurt out the question she barely dares ask, but she’s Debra fucking Morgan, dammit, and she dares to do anything she fucking well-

“Oof.”

He rolls her over, kicking blankets and sheets away, his mouth on hers, his cock nudging her thigh. “Debra,” he says, his voice too soft and steady when she feels like she can barely breathe. “I’m not going anywhere. Not this time.”

“Good.” She huffs out a breath. “Cause I was just about to handcuff you to the bed.”

“Ohh, kinky.”

“Damn straight.”

She can feel a surge of something – adrenaline backed up by joy – and hooks a foot around his ankle, twisting with just enough effort to put him flat on his back, laughing with her as she straddles him. How many weeks had they known each other? How many times had they done this? Not nearly enough, but it still has an edge of familiarity and comfort she’s missed as long as she’s missed him.

She’d learned, in those few weeks, not to expect too much from him in the mornings after they’d fucked each other to sleep. He’s sixty, after all. The equipment gets rusty. But he’s right there with her now, hard when she reaches for him, desperate enough for her that she has to wonder if he got laid at all in the last couple of years. Knowing him, he probably just sat it out, freezing his butt off at Lake Ipper-fucking-wash.

He still owes her for that parka.

“ _Debra_ …” He raises his hips just as she presses down, and _oh_ he hasn’t forgotten a thing, even if she had somehow misplaced the memory of just how perfect the fullness of him inside her can be.

“God, fucking… _Lundy_.” Before, it had taken him about three nights of this to get her to call him Frank. That name’s never quite penetrated down to the primal level of her brain. Her nails scrape over his chest, score over his nipples, and she feels him tense and squirm and buck up into her, needy as a teenager, almost as needy as she is.

He pushes, wanting to roll her over again, and this time she lets him. He’s old-fashioned that way, and there’s something beautiful about his need for her, about the crack of lightning outside that flashes in his green-brown eyes. He sees her looking at him and smiles, and that’s all she needs.

It’s all too goddamn _quick_ , she scolds herself a moment before her hips arch into him and her eyes squeeze tight as the pleasure rolls through her, longer but not as sharp as it had been the first time, hours ago now. But he’s right there with her, hot and fast, her name on his lips as he comes.

He lies there for a moment, an arm across her body, motionless but for heaving breaths she can see but not hear. The rain is deafening, the sky dark, the sunrise lost behind clouds.

Frank sorts out the sheets with more care than she could ever muster, and pulls them up and over her, kissing her forehead and settling down amid their scattered pillows. Such a gentleman. Such a…

She nestles into him, feeling his warmth, loving his scent.

 _I love you._ She should say it. She feels it. But… There will be other opportunities. Other nights. Other days. And perhaps she doesn’t need to say anything at all.

“What happens tomorrow?”

Frank smoothes her hair with his fingertips. “It already is tomorrow.”

“When we get up, then…”

“We catch Trinity. We… Well, you have to decide…”

Deb turns and pokes him hard in the stomach. She probably leaves a bruise. “Fucking hell, Frank. Seriously. No more dancing around things. No more fucking running off to Oregon. What do _you_ want?”

If there’s one thing he is good at – besides fishing and cooking and catching psychos – it’s doing what she tells him.

“We catch Trinity,” he repeats, words chosen carefully. She could fall asleep listening to that voice. “You… you tell Anton you’re leaving him. We buy a great little apartment with an amazing kitchen. You solve crimes and catch bad guys, and I cook for you every night…”

“Why Special Agent Lundy,” Deb says, grin big and white enough to see even in pitch darkness, “is this a ‘happily ever after’ you’re talking about?”

His grin mirrors hers. “Damn straight.”

Outside, the rain is sweeping the streets, battering windowpanes, swaying palm trees. The ocean is a dark and violent blue, lightning scarring the sky. But Deb knows rainstorms in Miami. Give it an hour or two, as she hugs Frank Lundy close, listening to his heartbeat, knowing that he’s here and alive and _hers_ , and soon the storm will be gone.

And everything will be fresh and clean and new.


End file.
